Jam
by Sherlockfan12
Summary: John plots to play a trick on Sherlock, but ends up with quite a shock himself. Inspired by the harpoon scene in The Hound of Baskerville. Slash, Johnlock fluff


**Author's Note:** _Another John and Sherlock admit their love fan-fiction. This one turned out a little more risque than I'd intended. I ended it with the door closing as John insisted firmly it was nobody's business what they got up to in the shower ;P_

_-Obligatory Disclaimer -_

_These characters belong to the BBC show writers Moffat and Gatiss. This is just fanfiction, no profits made, blah blah blah. And my apologies for any fangirlish butcherings which have no doubt occurred herein._

* * *

**Jam**

Sherlock burst in the door covered in blood, yet again. For an instant John's heart stopped, as it always did, fearing he'd been seriously injured, but Sherlock's smug grin indicated that whatever had happened it wasn't life threatening, well not to him anyway.

"Oh that was exhilarating!" he cried, "John you really should have been. . ."

John caught him as he strode into the living-room, his fingers pressed firmly against Sherlock's chest. "Don't sit down." He interrupted with a wry smile, pushing him toward the toilet as he made a quick inspection for any actual cuts. "We'll never get the stains out of that." He commented, shaking his head as he peeled the bloody fabric away from Sherlock's thankfully unscathed skin. "Could you maybe see that you wear one of your old shirts next time you slaughter something?"

"He was already dead." Sherlock corrected that technicality as he struggled out of his blood-soaked shirt.

"Great. Fine. Just go wash!" John seized the shirt before Sherlock could drop it on the floor, then pushed him in and closed the door. "And don't touch my white towel!" he shouted through the wall. To be safe, he ran and grabbed a black one from the cabinet and threw it in at him.

John muttered to himself as he tossed the shirt into the fireplace with disgust; he was not even going to bother to wash the ruddy thing. He then stalked into the kitchen to fix a snack, pausing to first wash his hands a bit more thoroughly than absolutely necessary. Sherlock had been out all day, and probably hadn't eaten. He hoped he hadn't eaten after acquiring that mess. John had found that if he had food lying about on the desk Sherlock just might actually eat some of it. He rarely ate any of his own food but he'd snack off John's plate as he passed by often enough to keep himself standing.

John kept shaking his head. Whatever was he to do with him? Sherlock was always giving him a start, always making a mess. "Oof" he said at the smell coming from the refrigerator, _very big messes._ He grumbled, shifting his jars of jam a little further away from the stinking container of what looked like a liver. John 'tsk-ed' to himself. Sherlock never took care of himself properly. He hated to think what the flat, and Sherlock's health, might have been like if John hadn't been there to, for instance, force him to wash up before lounging on the furniture covered in gore. His bloody image in the doorway hung in John's mind a moment. His heart had nearly stopped at the sight. He was honestly terrified that some day he would find himself bending over Sherlock on an operating table and that he wouldn't be able to save him. _Did Sherlock have any idea how much he mattered to him? So astute, and yet so oblivious._ John shook his head once more.

It was probably about time he cleaned out the fridge again. The thumbs definitely had to go. Whatever Sherlock had been doing with them, they must have been done and forgotten by now. Unfortunately, he didn't think he should just put them in the bin. He scrubbed at some red goo he found on one shelf, which was thankfully only jam that had dripped from the rim of the jar of red current, and not blood that had dripped from some experiment. An idea flitted across his mind at that. Wouldn't it be nice to give Sherlock a start for a change? He'd love to see what he would do. Perhaps a moment of panic would make him admit what he would never actually say. John filed that thought away for further rumination.

* * *

John heard Sherlock's footsteps on the stair and concentrated on keeping his breathing as calm and shallow as he could manage. He'd been waiting there long enough to almost doze off, and his left ear was getting numb pressed against the kitchen floor. As much as he longed to see Sherlock's expression, he kept his eyes shut as he heard the door open.

"Jam." Sherlock couldn't have sounded more bored as he walked straight past John's little scene.

John glanced up at him feeling very disappointed at the complete failure of his ruse. Though, really what did he expect with Sherlock. Now he just felt dumb for trying to fool him for even a second. He sighed and began to sit up.

However, after taking off his coat and tossing it over the back of his chair, Sherlock quickly strode over and placed his toe firmly on John's shoulder preventing him from getting up.

"I wasn't done yet" he reproved, looming over him.

_Okaaaay_, John glanced up at him warily.

Sherlock smirked at John's expression, and then took on his customary look of arrogance as he began his analysis. "Obviously jam, blood doesn't clump like that. You've been laying here for about. . . twenty minutes, considering that it took me 10 minutes more than I'd anticipated in my text which you didn't respond to. Nice touch to provide me with misgivings," he added. "Blood would have been turning darker by this time and getting crusty on the thinner tails. Real blood is also less translucent." He shook his head in mock long-suffering at John's egregious oversights. "Close your eyes, you're still a corpse." He ordered crouching down for further inspection. "Oh, this is a fun game by the way." He added as an aside before continuing ruthlessly on.

"Although you obviously wanted to shock me as I came in the door, you placed yourself completely in the kitchen, even though this context all the more readily suggests the true nature of your 'blood', because you didn't want to make a mess on the carpet. A murderer would hardly be so considerate. Remember that next time you want to compose a crime scene. Your dying pose is far too comfortable and ordinary reflecting that you were not limp as you 'fell'. It's also lacking any sign of struggle. Likewise nothing else in the kitchen has been disturbed. Obviously self-perpetrated, then. "

John could feel him fiddling with his sticky shirt now and almost opened his eyes in surprise, but was too afraid to as Sherlock bent over him rattling on in his low urgent voice, "The splatter you created all over yourself and the tile could have only been done intentionally, not by any stab wound to the chest." He pulled open his shirt to reveal the fake wound. "And your shirt would have been torn anyways. The floor is slightly tilted in this direction so blood would have run this way, but you spread the jam over there leaving a clear space for me to kneel here because you wanted me to rush to your side. You used the strawberry jam instead of the older red current, which would have been closer in colour, because you're not sure it's safe anymore, and you also know I don't like it, which indicates that although you didn't actually expect this ploy to work, judging by the fact that you only left two buttons undone rather than a more suggestive three or four, you were secretly hoping I would do this:" He licked the jam from John's chest, pausing to suck his nipple before trailing soft kisses over his heart. John flinched in shock and then shivered as Sherlock shifted to lick the length of his neck, thoroughly removing every trace of sickyness. Then he whispered in his ear. "Am I right?"

John's breath caught as Sherlock bit his neck gently before pulling back to pin him with his gaze. John stared up at him, terrified by this completely unexpected intimacy from Sherlock, but before he could stammer something in response Sherlock consumed his mouth, filling him with sweet jam flavor. John gripped his shoulders with the intent of pushing him away, but found himself just hanging on to him instead. Sherlock paused to murmur over his lips, "Your cue John. 'That was amazing,' any time now you can say it."

John searched his eyes in a breathless, bewildered haze. "Ama. . ." He panted, "yes!. . ." Sherlock needed no further bidding and kissed him again. Then peeling off his sticky shirt he began licking his shoulder, his arm, sucking on his fingers, then turning his attention to John's somewhat ticklish sides and wending his way to his stomach to lick the jam that had dripped further down into the little trail of hairs on his belly. "Pity you had such low expectations," he said plucking at John's waste-band, "you should have known I like to be thorough in my investigations."

"You, you actually?. . .I mean, you're. . . You want?. . . I. . ." John blathered in disbelief.

"What? I thought it was obvious." Sherlock regarded him with indignant surprise. "But _I_ wasn't going to make a move because you're so damn obliging you'd have probably done it with me anyways, even if you weren't ready."

John gaped at him a moment longer as this sunk in. "You were waiting for _me_. . .?" he said faintly.

"Yes, are you sorted now?" _Are you done blathering? Are you ready? Can we get on with it now?_ He undid John's trouser button impatiently and glanced roguishly up at him as he pulled on the zipper.

"Wha. . . I. . ." John was still speechless with shock. It seemed his whole picture of the world had just been turned upside down.

"Are you finally willing to admit you actually are my boyfriend? Or was this not, in fact, an elaborate invitation?"

John found himself nodding in a confused round-about sort of motion while a mad storm of butterflies wreaked havoc on his insides. He'd only let himself imagine Sherlock rushing to his side and crying out in concern before they both laughed over his joke. Or perhaps, just maybe, he'd be too distraught to realize right away and would shed a tear or whisper that he couldn't go on without him, or anxiously mutter something like 'please don't be dead.' Now as he stared at Sherlock, actually in the flesh, leaning over him and toying with his fly, John's shock finally began to dissipate into giddy triumph that this had worked far better than he'd ever dreamed. He found himself laughing, almost hysterically in his relief, as he pulled Sherlock down on top of himself again, holding his head against his chest and squeezing him tightly. "Just don't get any ideas of trying this sort of invitation on me with real blood, okay?"

"You wouldn't kiss my wounds?" Sherlock pretended to sound hurt.

"I don't want to have to." John replied seriously. "You know you about gave me a heart-attack the other day."

"Of course." Sherlock replied blandly. "It's the only way I could ever get you to show how much you care about me. But you still always held back."

"What! Seriously?" he pushed him back to study his face, "You do that kind of thing just so you can see me turn pale and run to look after you?"

"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, John, but it's so much nicer when you do it." He winked, flashing a mischievous grin.

"Oh." So he'd been fishing for John's attention all this time. John smiled and studied his face, reaching up to touch it. Sherlock captured his thumb in his mouth. "And I thought it was you who would never admit. . . you mean, you _love_ me?"

"Obviously." Sherlock bent closer to lick some jam off John's cheek, as if to say let's stop being boring now.

John smiled warmly, "Yes I think I'm sorted now. I love you too."

Sherlock kissed him deeply in response and started to work John's trousers over his hips, but John pushed him back.

"Can we _not_ do this on the kitchen floor, with the jam?"

Sherlock huffed in irritation.

"I've been laying on this damn hard tile for half an hour, I'd really like. . ."

"Oh alright." Sherlock relented, standing up and pulling John to his feet after him. With a hand on John's chest Sherlock pushed him towards the toilet just as John had done the other day. "Let's not get the sheets sticky, shall we?" he teased, mimicking John's fussy-ness over the laundry. John blushed deeply as Sherlock crowded him towards the shower, shutting the toilet door behind them.


End file.
